Apocalypse of the Dead. Joe Mckinney

sure, and Randy, he looked mystified when Margaret told him to stop tattling instead of yelling at his sister for calling him a turd brain, but it was okay. She was doing fine.

      Now they were on the way down to the estuary, where the pamphlet up at the nurse’s office said they had over sixty species of migrating birds during the summer months, the path lined by bougainvillea and palmetto swaying in the warm ocean breeze.

      Britney, who was tall and skinny and beautiful like her mother, liked birds. Randy, he didn’t. He looked bored.

      “Nana,” he said. “Where are all the birds? You said there’d be birds.”

      That was a good point, Margaret thought. She didn’t see any.

      “Nana, what’s that man doing?”

      “What man, Randy?”

      “That one.”

      With her thumb, she pushed a pair of bifocals up the bridge of her nose and leaned forward, trying to see where Randy was pointing.

      What followed was a moment of confusion. Her mind gave her a merciful sort of reprieve from the shock of too sudden a revelation. Like bad news, the full impact of what she was seeing took a moment to filter through the buffer of her disbelief. But gradually, the obvious could not be denied. That man, she realized, was a zombie.

      “Nana?”

      She grabbed them both by the shoulder and squeezed. “Come on, kids. Let’s go back.”

      “Nana,” Britney said. She shook herself loose.

      Together, they watched the man in orange as he stood up and slowly turned around. His face was covered with blood. Something long and limp, like wet, raw bacon, was hanging from his mouth. Even at this distance, Margaret could tell there was something wrong with the man’s eyes.

      The man in orange climbed onto the bank, pond water leaking out from between his cracked teeth. None of them saw the others coming out of the trees farther down the path, not until Randy heard sirens from the main road and turned that way.

      “Nana,” he said, pulling on Margaret’s shirt.

      Margaret pulled him close to her. A man in a bloodstained T-shirt and khaki shorts was coming toward them through the grass. A big piece of meat was missing from the side of his face and dried blood covered his hands. The hands kept opening and closing, like he was begging for food. His mouth opened, revealing teeth black with blood, and he began to moan.

      The sound was answered all around by the other zombies.

      “Nana,” Britney shouted.

      It was too much for Randy. He was pulling against Margaret’s grip, trying to run away. Randy was small for his age, but God he was strong, and he nearly pulled her down with his struggles. And then Ed Moore, wearing a cowboy hat and jeans and holding a baseball bat, stepped into the grass in front of them, and Margaret couldn’t believe how fast he moved. He planted the bat right up against the zombie’s head.

      Laid him out with one swing.

      The zombie didn’t get up. Ed stood over the body, looking down.

      Blood dripped from the end of the bat.

      Then he turned and smiled and tipped his cowboy hat to Margaret, winking at her. “How you doing, Margaret? You okay?”

      Margaret whimpered.

      Beside her, Randy, who was thoroughly awestruck, just nodded.

      Ed Moore looked the three of them over. Margaret O’Brien was sixty-eight, frumpy, a little overweight, but still confident on her feet. The kids looked young, early elementary school aged. One look at Margaret and he knew she had already figured out what was going on. That was good. Having to explain it to her would take too long. The kids he wasn’t so sure about. That age, did they know about the infected? Did they have any idea what it meant to see them outside the quarantine zone?

      “We have to get somewhere safe,” he said.

      Margaret O’Brien nodded. The kids didn’t say anything, just latched onto Margaret and stared at the infected coming at them from all sides.

      “My cottage is over there,” he said, pointing with the bat over their shoulders. “Can you guys make it?”

      Margaret pulled the children close. Ed figured that was answer enough. He turned and gauged the distance to his cottage. There were three zombies between them and safety, two others that might be able to close the distance if he didn’t get the other three with the first hit.

      “Let’s go,” he said.

      And with that, he went for the zombie nearest to them and got behind it. He stroked it in the back of the knees and dropped it. While it was down, he hit it in the back of the head.

      He gave a quick look behind him, saw that Margaret and her two grandkids were still with him, and went on to the next one.

      “Where did they come from?” Margaret asked him.

      They were in his cottage now. Margaret was standing in the middle of his living room. The children had backed themselves into the corner behind his TV. Neither one of them had said a word since he first met them, and that was okay with Ed. He liked children, always had, but the quieter the better. He figured scared and quiet kids beat scared and crying kids any day.

      “Ed?”

      He was in his closet, getting his guns down from the storage box on the top shelf. After retirement, he had shelved his beloved .357 revolvers and figured he might never wear them again. And up until today, he had even convinced himself that it was nice not having to carry the things around.

      “Ed? Where’d they come from? I thought…the quarantine. Aren’t they…How could this happen?”

      He stepped out of the closet with his gun belt in his hand. He slipped it around his waist and buckled it, then put his gun case on the coffee table and took out a pair of Smith & Wesson .357s. He dropped one into the holster and tucked the other into the small of his back.

      The boy was looking at him, his eyes wide.

      “I don’t know, Margaret. I really don’t. It’s spreading, though. I saw three of them attacking Linda Beard.”

      Margaret looked sick.

      “Do me a favor,” he said. “Check the window. Tell me how many you see.”

      “Where did you get those guns?” the boy asked.

      Margaret was peering through the blinds. She let them fall back into place and said, “Mr. Moore is a retired U.S. Marshal.”

      “No way! You’re a marshal?”

      “Used to be,” Ed said. He smiled at the boy. “What’s your name, son?”

      “Randy Hargensen.”

      “Well, hello, Randy Hargensen. And how about you, little lady?”

      “This is Britney,” Randy said. “She’s ten.”

      Ed tipped his hat to her. “Pleased to know you, Britney.”

      The girl didn’t speak. She was trembling all over.

      Randy said, “I like your hat. It’s cool.”

      “Randy’s into Westerns,” Margaret said.

      “Great. I like a good Western myself. You ever read Elmer Kelton, Randy?”

      The boy cocked his head to one side. “I’m seven.”

      “Oh. Good point. Tell me, Randy, you ever seen a real marshal’s badge?”

      “No, sir.”

      Ed took out his wallet. Inside was a gold badge. He slid it out, removed it from its backer, and then handed it to Randy.

      “You put that on,